No. V.

Come, Pembroke lives! Oh! do not fright our ears With the destroying truth! first raise our fears And say he is not well: that will suffice To force a river from the public eyes, Or, if he must be dead, oh! let the news Speak in astonish'd whispers: let it use Some phrase without a voice, and be so told, As if the labouring sense griev'd to unfold Its doubtfull woe. Could not the public zeal Conquer the Fates, and save your's? Did the dart Of death, without a preface, pierce your heart? Welcome, sad weeds—but he that mourns for thee, Must bring an eye that can weep elegy. A look that would save blacks: whose heavy grace Chides mirth, and bears a funeral in his face. Whose sighs are with such feeling sorrows blown, That all the air he draws returns a groan. Thou needst no gilded tomb—thy memory, Is marble to itself—the bravery Of jem or rich enamel is mis-spent— Thy noble corpse is its own monument!